THE first time I went to the movies was when my eyes were at my knees. The movie was Oliver Twist, shown at the old Theatre Clarendon in May Pen. I remember the occasion because it was a school trip from Four Paths, a little village four miles away, and the headmaster thought it would be educational. It was a bit too early for me to meet Charles Dickens, but what stands out and made the trip so memorable was the threepence patty made and bought from Uncle Sam’s restaurant, and the soft drink which was either a Diamond Mineral or an OK It’s Kelly’s.

I must have fallen asleep after the patty appetisers because I don’t remember much from the film. But I do recall that the flashing lights and neon advertising signs were attraction enough for country kids who were just emerging from the bottle torch and kerosene oil lamp era.

In those days, trips to the movies — at least for us youngsters — were few and far between. It was easy to get to May Pen. You walked four easy miles, or took a Pioneer or Enterprise country bus. But we weren’t allowed to walk back late at nights unless an adult or an older brother accompanied us.

Not so for my parents. My mother was a member of the bicycle brigade, a group of ladies who formed a kind of informal film society and who would ride to May Pen on Friday evenings to take in the double bill. The conveyance of choice was the famous Humber Ladies’ Wheels, which carried no seat bars or saddle bags. Returning home at the midnight hour was no problem, but I can well image what a target those ladies would pose for criminals in today’s world.

My father’s interest was in the trip made with friends to Kingston to watch the big movies which opened at Carib or Ward Theatre but which would be kept out of the rural theatre circuit for months. For example, no Bible epic ever missed them. David and Bathsheba, The Big Fisherman, The Robe provided conversation back in the village for days, as they would be among the few who were able to travel to the big city to watch the flicks.

In those days, movies were the highlights of any entertainment package for folks who did not have the modern instant viewing on the television, the video, the CD, and now the wristwatch. Jamaicans took their movies seriously and followed every inch of the reel with fascination and live interest as if it were, indeed, real life. For example, in that epic moment when Delilah shaved off Sampson’s hair and he lost his strength, it is said that every man in Carib stood up and boxed the lady beside him. “Tek dat, tek dat, revenge, revenge.”

And I can recall stories of the long queues of film-goers who stood in line for hours outside the cinema waiting patiently for their turn to get inside to watch Street Corner. Now, Street Corner was the first film to come to Jamaica that advertised some intimacy between male and female on the screen, and reportedly showed (shocking indeed) a woman going through the pains and contortions of childbirth. But, hold the phone, moral standards then dictated that the cinema have an afternoon showing for ladies only, and an evening showing for men. It was the most talked about movie in Jamaica, and some brave lads actually disguised themselves as women to get into the matinee.

When it finally came to our elementary school for the weekly Saturday evening film show, the windows and doors were securely blanketed and barricaded to keep out young eyes. We climbed an adjoining poinsettia tree to get a peep, but to no avail. And we collected a good round of beatings the following Monday morning for our attempted incursion.

Years later, when I saw Street Corner on the television, it was the most innocent thing compared to the hard-core stuff we are subjected to nowadays. But give a movie a little controversy and the crowds will flock the cinema. It happened over one hundred years ago, when the first movie kiss in history hit the screen in a film called The Widow Jones in 1896, and it created a sensation. This must have been the lantern screen days with the projector just barely invented. The Widow Jones was produced smack in the middle of the Victorian era and the Victorians were scandalised at the comedic brush of the lips projected unto the little screen.

They found it repulsive and one enraged critic wrote, “The lady and gentleman were unattractive enough, but the spectacle of their prolonged posturing, repeated three times, was absolutely disgusting.” Such reviews, of course, only served to bring out the audience.

But, speaking of movies, although it was not easy to get to the May Pen cinemas (Theatre Clarendon and the Little Magnet, the latter regarded as the ‘fowl roost’ theatre), my elementary school days also saw action-packed weekends of the most thrilling assortment of movies, the best of the Westerns, swordfight epics, war stories, religious films, love dramas, musicals, and comedies.

We were fed from this menu by an entrepreneur from Porus, one Mr Barracat, I recall, who would drive his little Morris station wagon from district to district each Saturday night to show a movie in the schoolroom. He had to move fast, as he would start reel one at Four Paths, replace it with reel two when it finished, dash to York Pen to put on reel one, and move around replacing the reels to ensure that the show went on. If reel two was finished and he wasn’t back in time to set up reel three, the audience used the interval to demand his return using broad Jamaican language, especially if the break was in the middle of a passionate love scene or a gunfight.

Such was the foundation of our encyclopaedic knowledge of Hollywood, as we were as sharp as any Kingston audience when it came to recognising the popular movie stars of the day.

Picture this. The little schoolroom is packed, the MGM lion roars, and as the names of the actors are displayed, those who can read show off their skills by shouting out the names as they appear, “Rock Hudson, Robert Taylor, Joan Fontaine, Elizabeth Taylor, John Wayne, Betty Hudson, Roy Rogers, Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe,” and so on.

We followed our film shows with zest. We helped John Wayne fight off the bad men, Roy Rogers lock up the rustlers, enjoyed the greatest swordfight in movie history with Scaramouche, the ladies fainted when Clarke Gable romanced Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind, sided with Humphrey Bogart when under pressure, and we raised the roof as we rode shotgun on the stage to avoid the red Indian ambush up ahead.

I still don’t know how Teacher managed to put back the schoolroom together for Monday morning. The desks and chairs were in as much disarray as the Ole Cowboy’s Saloon which had seen its biggest fight over the weekend. And for the rest of the week we would be enjoying mock swordfighting and six-shooter duels, shades of the heroic struggles we had seen on celluloid.

I don’t think we ever had a boring weekend in my village. The Saturday evening shows were usually preceded by first-class cricket at Glenroy, the village green, where the finest aggregation of sugar estate and Nethersole Cup stars would battle it out for Lawson Cup honours.

On Sunday mornings it was off to Sunday School and church where the ladies’ and men’s cricket teams would exchange their cricket whites for their choir robes. The Sunday school urchins were forced to sit right under the noses of the choir stalls. No escape from the grim stare of Dickie Vassell or Osmond Howe, who were apparently under orders to keep us in line. One look and we knew we would ‘get it’ later. For in those days reports of any misdemeanours would reach home before us.

On the way home from church we had to pass Miss Flyter’s shop on the corner. Miss Flyter’s shop window was always surreptitiously opened on a Sunday morning and any collection penny saved by our ringleader went straight through the window to the mint ball bowl. We had to move quickly, because the choir would be following on our heels as they too headed to Miss Flyter’s back door bar for refreshments after the service.

They say you can’t go home again, but it’s really nice to visit those old-time haunts, if only in your thoughts. The aroma from the outdoor wood stoves used to be a dead giveaway of what your neighbour was cooking for dinner, Miss Ida’s fry fish, Miss Allen’s peas soup next door, while the Big Yard kitchens hinted at a tantalising menu of stew pork, roast breadfruit, and ackee and saltfish with a potato pone to come.

Four Paths smelled good, especially on a Thursday evening during baking time. Walter Christie’s Bakery in the village square stopped traffic travelling from Mandeville to Spanish Town as commuters rushed to get their share of fresh hard dough bread, rolls and pastries. Further down the lane Miss Mattie would be baking her famous buns with her crisp, trademark hot cross strips. Not far off, Maas Elmos had rigged up a coal-fired oven for his appetising bullas baked in the open.

And from across the road, a little boy over 50 years ago was looking forward to another summer day’s feasting on the guavas, gimbilin, tamarind, cherries, pineapples, sugar cane, mangoes, and coconuts from the good life found only on Ole George’s farm next door.

Lance Neita is a public and community relations consultant. Send comments to lanceneita@hotmail.com.